Goodbye, Dad

For more than three years, as my father’s Parkinson’s got worse and my visits to Florida to help take care of him became more regular and more challenging, I began writing a eulogy for him in my head. I had all the words and all the stories queued up and ready to go.

And then, when he actually passed away last week, and I had to put fingers to keyboard, I didn’t know what to say.

Despite all the time I spent with my dad this year and in the years prior, even with all the great memories I had to look back on, the words wouldn’t come. I was just at a loss. In so many ways.

We knew the day was coming, sooner rather than later: A week and a half earlier, my dad had fallen and badly broken the humerus bone in his shoulder. A sedative and painkiller took the edge off — until they were no longer needed because he was sleeping soundly on his own. And that’s how my dad spent most of the last week of his life: sleeping, at the assisted-living facility where he’d been living since July.

Two days after Thanksgiving, after he’d woken up briefly and was lucid enough to tell my niece and nephews that he loved them, an X-ray revealed that my dad had a respiratory infection and a collapsed lung. We were hopeful he’d beat this, too, like he’d beaten so many other things these last 16 years since his initial Parkinson’s diagnosis.

Alas, when the house phone rang at 1:15 a.m. a couple days later, and I ran down the hall repeating “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck” until I picked it up, I knew exactly what had happened: My dad had lost the fight. According to the hospice aide who was there at his bedside, my dad drifted off shortly after she gave him a breathing treatment. If he had to go, that’s how we wanted it to happen: Peacefully and painlessly.

Now, he doesn’t have to fight anymore.

Eventually, the words did come and I delivered a eulogy for my father at the funeral in New York two days after he passed. Thank you to my sister for the inspiration I needed; she knew all the right things to say last week when I was struggling.

What follows is most of the text of what I said (I removed some details for privacy/security purposes). But first, a short video retrospective my sister and I made for my dad. We initially made this for his 76th birthday, because we didn’t know how much longer he’d be with us and we wanted to have a slideshow/montage available. But then he just kept on living, thankfully, so we kept on adding to it. The result is a fast-moving but heartfelt tribute that we played on a loop during the week of shiva (with the sound off, of course). I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of watching it.

Goodbye, Dad. I love you.

“No one was like my dad”

Harvey Lieberman was a lot of things. A devoted family man. A loving husband. A proud father and grandfather. A loyal friend. A hard-working small business owner. A leader of the synagogue community. A youth soccer coach. A voracious eater.

My father.

But here’s something he wasn’t: Comfortable being the center of attention.

Which makes today a bit of an ironic occasion, because Dad … today is all about you. And you’re about to hear a lot of things about why we love you and why we’re so sad you’re gone. It’s not going to be easy for you. It’s going to be near impossible for me. But like so many other things, we’re going to do it together. So, let’s both settle in and see how we do.

My father was born in [] on [] to his parents, my grandpa and Bubby. He was the oldest of three siblings, the big brother of my aunt and my uncle, whose premature deaths he grieved till the end.

According to multiple sources, my dad was a shy kid growing up. I’ve never heard him described as the most outgoing teenager. And that didn’t really change as he got older. Sure, my dad was kind, and he was funny — he definitely enjoyed a good joke — both telling one and being told one. But my dad did best when he was in a conversation that was one-on-one. Or a small group, anyway. If my dad got to know you, you’d have a friend for life. You’d likely receive phone calls checking in often. Possibly even multiple calls in a single day, or in a single hour if it was one of those days and his Parkinson’s was acting up.

He didn’t just have coworkers or clients, he had friends — many of whom had amazing stories to share when we called to tell them the sad news this week.

And my dad loved his friends. He participated in weekly poker games. Played golf, tennis, and racquetball with them. Went on group vacations to places like Maine and the Bahamas. There were many, many, many dinners out — including to places like Rockwell’s, where, coincidentally, it was always someone’s birthday, so we had a waffle sundae with a sparkler sent over to our table.

My dad treated everyone with respect. He’d bring in coffee for his coworkers or for the people who were doing my mother’s hair. If you were his client or customer, he worked with you, and didn’t tell you what to do. He’d ask if anyone wanted something when he went out. He was always good to receptionists and people at the front desk, and to waiters and waitresses he liked. He knew a little extra attention and some loyalty went a long way. At my parents’ favorite Italian restaurant in Florida, one waiter has become so fond of my parents that he makes sure he always serves them when they come in, even if they sit in a different section of the restaurant. When my dad was sick or in the hospital, he would give us free containers of my dad’s favorite pasta fagioli soup to take to him. He even gave us his personal phone number and said to let him know if my dad or my mom ever needed anything. Waiters don’t do stuff like that unless they like you. A lot.

Baseball was a focal point of my dad’s entire life. He was a devoted fan of the New York Mets, and he was probably so disappointed when I became a Red Sox fan. (Sorry, Dad.) He enjoyed going to games, watching games, and talking about games. A couple years ago, Mitzi and I got him a birthday greeting from Keith Hernandez on Cameo, and I know that really impressed him. The station on the TV that got the most attention from my dad was the MLB Network. I don’t know if anyone watched Ken Burns’ Baseball documentary series as often as he did.

My dad and I bonded on multiple occasions over baseball. I once took him on a tour of Fenway Park on one of our multiple “boys weekends” in Boston. Thankfully, he kept any comments about 1986 to himself. For a number of years, we’d visit a different spring training facility — one year, the Red Sox in Fort Myers, another year the Dodgers in Vero Beach, and others. It was at Dodgertown that he bought the Brooklyn Dodgers hat that became his default headgear when he needed to cover up. And I’ll always remember how excited he was to meet and get the autograph of Tommy Lasorda that day.

It’s worth noting that my dad didn’t just watch baseball, he was an all-star player, too. He pitched on the [] High School team before he did the same at [] College. And then he actually had a tryout with the Cleveland Indians.

And yet, for all his athleticism, no one ever said my father had game, or called him a ladies’ man. But when he met my mother, something clicked. The two were set up on a blind date in early January 1972, they were engaged on Valentine’s Day, and about six months later, they were married. I’ll save you the trouble of doing the math: This summer was their 52nd anniversary. Amazing.

The stories of their courtship are legendary. The letters my dad wrote when he went on a family vacation that year are so hot, they could heat an Alaskan home in the winter. No, really. Who knew Harvey Lieberman had it in him? “Everybody says we’re moving too fast, but I don’t care. They don’t know how much I love you!” He actually wrote stuff like that to my mom.

It’s safe to say that passion never died. My parents were a codependent couple. A perfect fit. They were Ward and June. Till his last days, my dad would still call out to my mom, even when she wasn’t anywhere close for her to hear him. The staff of the assisted living facility where my dad spent the last five months of his life would tell us how often he spoke about my mother, and how much he loved her, and how he couldn’t wait to see her again after she was in the hospital this summer and separated from my father for about 13 weeks. When my mom started to visit him at the residence, and didn’t feel so good about herself, my dad would tell her how “magnificent” she looked. Magnificent. That’s the word he used. Seeing them on FaceTime was cute, but I loved having them together again after so long, and seeing them holding hands.

My dad always wanted me to date more often. “How’s your social life?” he’d ask. I know he wanted me to be happy. I know he wanted me to have love in my life. But I also know he wanted me to have someone who would take care of me as well as my mother took care of him this last decade or so, just in case.

Dad, I want you to know we’ve got mom. She’s in good hands now. We’ll take care of her.

Of course, my dad and I did not always see eye to eye. For example, he was not a movie person. Apparently, he’d never seen a single Star Wars film. And he considered My Cousin Vinny and the Steve Martin remake of Father of the Bride to be two of the greatest films ever made. And yet, it was my dad who took me to my very first movie — the original Pete’s Dragon. I’m not saying he’s the reason for this, but today, going to the movies is one of my favorite things to do. So, I credit him for introducing me to cinema — and thank him for that formative memory.

I mentioned baseball earlier, but I should also mention football. When I was a kid, I can’t say sports were my thing. But oh, did my dad try to change that. Every year, he would take me to a Jets games in the middle of or late in the season. And oh, did I hate it. Not because the team was bad, which they were — and still are — I just never became a fan of sitting in the cold to watch sports. Or the Jets, for that matter. There was never enough hot chocolate to warm me up. And yet, every year, we’d still head out to the Meadowlands. Maybe this is why I eventually became a Patriots fan. Regardless, my dad remained a loyal Jets fan, and would watch them play whenever they were on.

He also loved Everybody Loves Raymond and Two and a Half Men, and would laugh at episodes so hard.

And my dad loved the steak at Capital Grille. And the macaroni and cheese from Publix. He judged bar or bat mitzvahs and weddings by whether they had pigs in a blanket or baby lamb chops during the cocktail hour — and he would often hover right by the kitchen to snag them right when they came out. Likewise, he considered it a good trip to Costco and Stew Leonard’s if there were lots of food samples.

But there were few things my dad loved more than a good chocolate chip cookie and ice cream — especially from Carvel. That was true right up to the end. On a recent visit to Florida, Mitzi had to stop at Bea’s Cakes in Armonk to pick up a dozen cookies and bring them with her because he’d been craving them.

And two weeks ago, the day after he’d fallen and broken his shoulder, the manager of the assisted living facility came by his room to wish him good morning. Apparently, the day earlier, she told him she was going to go to Publix to get him some ice cream, and then he fell and broke his shoulder. Well, when [] came to see him first thing that morning, before he even said hello to her, he asked, “Did you get my ice cream?”

That’s the kind of guy my dad was. He always had his priorities in order.

But all kidding aside, even on his worst days, my dad would look on the bright side. He always knew tough times would pass. Setbacks were temporary. “Every day I get another chance,” he would say. Of all his hand-me-downs and life lessons, my dad’s sense of optimism and perspective is the one I’ve most appreciated and adopted in my own life.

The other was his advice to never go to bed angry. On more than one occasion, my dad would get angry with someone, and then, almost without fail, before the day was up, he would apologize to that person or clear the air. Or, at the very least, he compartmentalized those feelings and didn’t let them affect his interactions with anyone else. Sure, he had a temper, and he got agitated, but he didn’t hold grudges.

The point was that you never know what could happen, and you didn’t want the last impression someone had of you to be a bad one. Or vice versa.

I spent a lot of time with my dad these last few years, helping my mom and supporting my dad. It wasn’t easy, but I’m very lucky I was able to do it. Every night I’d wait to go to bed until after he was in bed. And I’d never walk away from him at night without saying one final, “I love you.”

Dad, the last thing I heard you say to me clearly the other day was “I love you, too.” I’ll carry that with me for the rest of my days.

I’ve been told over the years that I’m a lot like my father. Which is a nice compliment, of course, but I’d like to think no one was like my dad.

Of course, I’m only skimming the surface here. There are so many other things I could share. Maybe, like my dad, I’m just better speaking one-on-one instead of in front of a large group.

For now, I’ll say this: Thanks for everything, Dad. I’ll miss you. And I love you.

(Top photo by Johannes Plenio/Unsplash)